A Portrait in the Rain
by TheMadamNeko
Summary: While working in a coffee shop, Alfred F. Jones (an American exchange student living in London) helps a starving and sleep-deprived artist who he didn't expect to fall in love with, much less let him change the way he looked at the world forever. Warnings: AU, USUK, BoyxBoy, swearing, poverty, mentions of self-harm and super artsy perspectives on the world.
1. Chapter One - Inspiration

It was another cold, winter's day. The heat was on, the coffee was brewing, and the whole shop smelled like fresh blueberry muffins. A young barista smiled to himself. It wasn't as though it was his intention to work in a coffee shop right after high school, but he certainly wasn't complaining. There was a lot of worse things he could do for a living. The barista hummed a quiet tune as he pulled the muffins from the oven and set them up in the display, watching the rain fall against the shop window in its never-ending downpour.

"Coffee, please," a voice called to him from the front desk. Alfred was startled by the noise and stood up quickly, hitting his head on the underside of the counter.

"Oww..." he whined softly, and walked over to greet the man. He was slightly shorter than the barista, with straw-blonde hair, and pale skin. It had obviously been ages since he had seen any sun at all. _Although, I guess that's normal here, _he thought to himself. "What may I get for you?" he asked with a smile.  
"Coffee, please," the man said again, although it was really more of a half-hearted grunt.

"Just regular house coffee then?" the barista asked. For goodness sake, this was a _coffee shop_ you have to be a little more specific than that!  
"Whatever is the cheapest," he looked up, and revealed to the barista the most gorgeous, emerald-green eyes he had ever seen. However, they were only half open and surrounded by dark circles that stood out against his pale skin.

The barista nodded and to go get him a cup of coffee, "For here or to-go?"

The man was quiet for a moment before deciding, "For here..."

He handed him the dirty brown cup of coffee and the man payed for his drink, sitting down at a nearby table, sipping the warm drink slowly. He was the only customer in the quiet coffee shop this early, so the young barista went back to staring at the rain and the sound it made against the window. A quiet and delightful tune played from the shop radio and everything seemed so calm and perfect. He checked his phone. There was nothing. He checked it again (just in case) and there was still nothing new to interest him. He looked up to check on the customer and found his head on the table. He chuckled slightly to himself. He loved it when customers did that. Those exhausted Englishmen trying to block out the morning light because they simply did not want the day to start yet. He could completely understand the feeling.

-CRASH-

This time Alfred looked up in alarm and saw the man with his head still on the table. He scrunched up his eyebrows in concern. _Didn't he hear the crash?_ Alfred peeked around the counter and saw the coffee splattered all over the floor and white bits of broken glass peaking through the dirty brown of the coffee. The barista's first thought was that the must have fallen asleep and knocked the coffee cup of the table, and his second thought was one of concern that the man might have gotten hurt when the glass shattered. He hurried over and shook him gently, "Sir? Sir?"  
The man stirred and looked up at him with tired eyes, blinking in confusion.

"Are you hurt!?"

"I-I beg your pardon?" he asked, still obviously out of it.

"You fell asleep and knocked the cup off the table! Are you okay?"

The man looked down and stared at the mess, and then to his pants which had a slowly growing spot of red on his calf, "Shit," he finally realized, "Fuck, I am sorry. I can p-pay for the cup... if you need me to."

"No, mister, don't worry about it! I just want to make sure you're okay!"

The man clearly shifted his leg to hide the red spot and stood up, avoiding the glass, "I'm fine... and don't call me "mister" I'm not an old man..." he added in a grumble.

Alfred tried not to laugh at that, "Well, what's your name then?"

The man looked at the barista curiously, "Its...Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"Well, Artie. I am Alfred and you are bleeding, which means you are not fine," he grabbed the man's wrist and watched as he turned very red and tried to pull away, "I have a first aid kit in the back. Let me help, and we'll see how bad it is," he told Arthur comfortingly and before the other had time to protest, slung Arthur's arm over his shoulder was leading him into the back room. As they walked he could help but notice how small and frail the man seemed. It was as if he had bones made of glass that would break if you gave him too firm of a handshake... and he was cold. So very cold.

"Look, Alfred. For one: don't call me Artie, and for two: I am fine. Please, let me be and I will be on my way. I have already caused you too much trouble."  
"I don't think so," Alfred insisted and sat him down, pulling out the first-aid kit, "You passed out cold at the table, and now you are bleeding. I'm going to bandage you up and then take you to either the hospital or home, okay?" he rolled up the man's baggy brown trousers, and was shocked by how skinny his legs were. They were so pale that they were almost white and had very little hair... but the most shocking part was how horribly, ridiculously thin they were, like twigs that may snap at any moment.

"Stop gawking, git..." the man said uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing a light pink, "And you will not take me anywhere!"

"Yes I am," Alfred insisted and stopped his staring, feeling a little bad for it. He continue to roll of the pant leg until he spotted the wound, and ripped open an alcohol wipe, "This is going to sting a little, okay?" he waited for the man to show some sign that he understood and began to clean the wound. His hands wiped away the blood skillfully and it became quite clear that this wasn't the first time he had done something like this. He hear the man hiss in pain and tried his best to be as gentle as possible, "Alright... you're lucky. It doesn't look too bad... but you really should be more careful. Have you been sleeping well?"

"That's none of your business."

Alfred sighed and wrapped the wound in a bandage, rolling back down his trousers, and looked up at him with a warm smile... realizing how pretty this man was. When he first walked in, Alfred had thought he was middle aged, or even older... but he soon realized he was probably only a few years older than himself, definitely in his twenties... yet his eyes seemed a thousand years old. He wasn't sure why, but his heart filled with sympathy for the man, "Wait here. I'm going to clean up the spill and close up shop. Then I can take you home, okay? You need rest."  
Arthur sighed and gave up protest... and Alfred couldn't help but notice that his cheeks seemed slightly redder than before. He smiled and quickly went to clean up the spill, eager to get back to the strange man. He felt entranced by his strange behavior, foul attitude, and emerald eyes. After finishing his tasks quickly, he rushed back to the man, "I hope you didn't wait too long! So, where's your home?"

Arthur looked down, "It's just a few blocks... I can get there myself."

Alfred shook his head, "No! I insist that I take you. As the hero I can't let an injured man walk home alone."

Arthur rolled his eyes and gave in, "It's a flat... on third."

"Okay, Artie! Let's go!"

It rained harder on that walk than it had for the whole time Alfred had lived in London. _Of course, _he whined internally, but had walked Arthur the whole way, wishing one of them had an umbrella. By the time they reached his apartment, they were both freezing and soaked to the very bone. Alfred had given Arthur his bomber jacket part of the way there, and was now in nothing but his jeans and a t-shirt... both of which acted like a sponge to the freezing cold rain. His golden blonde hair was plastered uncomfortably to his face (except, of course, for that one piece of hair that Alfred had long since given up trying to make lie flat). He shivered and flashed Arthur a large grin, "Is this it?"

Arthur nodded and handed Alfred back his jacket, "Umm, thank you..."

Those two words were all the young barista need to make it all worthwhile, "No problem, d-dude!" His teeth chattered on the last word, ruining the facade that he was fine, and that the cold wasn't bothering him at all.

Arthur's eyes grew wide, "Oh hell... I'm so sorry, Alfred. I didn't even think about how cold you must be! Would you... would you like to come inside and dry off a bit? I mean... if you want to... my flat is rather messy and not too much warmer... but if you have time I can make a fire. Oh, but if you have to get back to work I don't want to bo-"

Alfred cut him off, chuckling at the smaller man's ramble"I'd love to. Thank you."

"We have to get wood first... so if you can wait here, I'll be ri-"

"I can help!" he interrupted excitedly. He loved making fires, and had been doing so since he was very young.

"Alright then..." he sighed and led him down the hall to the large pile of firewood tucked away from the constant rain. Alfred winked at him and bent down, picking up a large pile of wood with such ease, he could see the surprise across Arthur's face, "Where to, your highness?"

The Englishman turned very red at this and snapped, "Don't mock me!" he sighed and said, "My flat is just up the stairs... git."

Alfred beamed and hurried up the stairs, careful not to slip on the wet steps. Peeking back at Arthur, he found himself catching a gorgeous sight. Arthur stood on the steps, his patched plaid jacket and dull green scarf caught in the wind, fluttering as they stood out dramatically against the cold grey of the street, stairs and sky, and his pale skin seemed to glow in the soft light of the overcast sky. Arthur looked up at him with his stunning emerald eyes full of curiousity... and something else Alfred couldn't put his finger on. In that moment Alfred felt himself begin to slip, and he began falling into a place he would not be able to return from, "W-what's your room number?"

"It's flat twenty-six!" Arthur called up from a few steps below, for athough he was not the one with armfuls of wood, he was quite slower than the barista, _He is probably totally out of shape. _Alfred realized sadly. It wasn't that he was fat... but quite the opposite. He didn't sleep and the bit of leg Alfred saw was so skinny, he was amazed the could still support the rest of his body. Alfred spotted the door marked with a thin, metal "26" and stopped his ascent, waiting for Arthur to catch up.

He finally did and stopped to catch his breath, before pulling out his key with fumbling, glove-coated fingers and unlocked the door. Alfred actually gasped at what he saw inside the door. Every wall that he could see just from staring through the doorway. There was stuff everywhere, yet it didn't seem messy... it was as if everything was in sorted piles of various... art supplies, he finally realized. Paints and cavases, sketchbooks, pens, aprons, and everything else you would imagine an artist to own. There were paint-splattered tarps layed across all the floors and some of the furniture (which were then covered in piles of books), "It's small, cold, and terribly messy..." Arthur said quietly, bending down to pull off his shoes and grabbing for a pair of worn slippers, "But it's my home..."

Alfred gaped, not even stepping inside yet... "It's incredible... I feel like I am surrounded by fairy tales," he stepped inside and spun slowly around, taking everything in. There were paintings depicting everything imaginable. London, forests, replicas of famous paintings, the sky, animals, people, and even what seemed to be unicorns and other strange mythical creatures, "Did you paint all of these...?" he asked in awe.

"Yes... but I am afraid they aren't very good," Arthur sighed, "The fireplace is over there. If you want it to be warm, you can start it if you know how and promise not to burn down my flat... I am going to go get changed into dry clothes," he turned quickly and disappeared around the corner. Alfred went over to the fireplace and gently cleared anything flamable from the hearth, setting to work on the fire. He used to do it all the time as a child. After all, he grew up on a farm. They were the perfect American family: Mother, father, two kids and a dog all living together in a big ranch house on their farm in Kansas. He even had a horse named Hero. The American dream... that's what they had... or at least until-

"Hey, git," a voice said from behind him and Alfred turned around to be hit in the face with a shirt, "It's all I have that might fit you... just until your's is dry."  
Alfred caught it easily, and with a word of thanks, pulled off his own and pulled the other one on. It was a bit tight on him, but not in a bad way... and it was really soft... and smelled like incense and old books... He shook his head from those thoughts and draped his shirt over the side of the hearth, going back to the fire. With the wood all set up and paper in place, he easily started a raging fire in a matter of minutes. Arthur walked over and sit next to him, holding his hands up to the heat and Alfred could swear he saw a smile flicker across his lips but so brief, he thought it must be only his imagination, "D...do you like the fire?"

Arthur nodded, "Yes. You make very beautiful fires... better than the ones I make. Yours do seem so alive, passionate, like the flames endlessly dance across their logs, not caring about what stands in their way. They may be contained in a small little fireplace, but they are as big as they can possibly be. I wish I could be like that..." This brought a long silence from the normally talkative barista. He felt at a loss for words after the man's elegant metaphor. Arthur seemed to notice, and got the wrong impression, "Sorry! I... well I do that quite a bit. It just seems that my mind works differently than most..."  
Alfred looked up and him, eyes glistening, "It's fine... Actually, I've always felt the same, but I was never able to phrase in the way you just did. Back home, I used to watch our fire for years, envying it's freedom... After all, shouldn't everything be free?"

Arthur smiled at him and Alfred's heart warmed. The Brit yawned and brought his knees to his chest, "I think... I think I want to paint."

Alfred chuckled, "Isn't that kind of what you do?"

Arthur sighed, "Of course it is... but sometimes... sometimes I just can't make anything worthwhile. I will go through canvas after canvas, tossing them all to the side in frustration. No matter what I do, I hate everything I create. I feel... hopeless." Alfred felt compassion for the artist grow in his chest. Although he wasn't an artist, and had no way of really knowing what that would be like, but he didn't have to imagine what it would feel like to be unable to do something worthwhile... and to hate the outcome of everything he tried to do. His hand slipped over Arthur's and gave it a gentle squeeze, "But it doesn't last forever... sometimes it fades away, and I can go back to painting just like I used to. However, it's the times that I find a new inspiration that make all of it worthwhile. It's the occasional times that something comes along, and I can't understand what or why it inspires me, but when that thing comes along, I can paint again. Not how I used to, but better than ever before. It's as if something has filled my heart with warmth once again... " Arthur may not of have been smile, but Alfred could see that there was a light that filled his eyes, "I want to paint again... because I think I have found that inspiration."

"Oh? And do you know what it is?" Alfred asked. This man confused him, but filled him with fascination. He found himself wanting to know everything about him, wishing that he could get inside his head and understand the way he thought!

"You," he yawned once more, parting his lips only slightly, and leaned against the couch, falling into a deep, relaxed slumber.

Alfred felt his cheeks grow warm, and a shiver run down his spine. He was this man's inspiration? How, when they had just met? Alfred may of had many men and women in his life confess their love to him, and some even called him their, "One and only" or "The best thing that had ever happened to them," but somehow it didn't compare to having this grumpy, sleep-deprived British artist call him his _inspiration_. It made him feel special, important even... but it also felt like a lot of pressure. Although all of his "friends" would tell you that he was the most confident, arrogant prat you would ever meet, he didn't really think he deserved that sort of title. He wasn't great. He was just a guy, a clumsy, foolish boy who screwed up time and time again... sometimes even hurting those he loved. Every failed relationship he had ever had was his fault. His teachers told him he was stupid, and his parents... well, he didn't want to remember that. He sighed and stood up, grabbing his now-dry shirt from the hearth and swiftly changing back into it. He layed down Arthur's shirt and sighed, _Maybe I should just leave... I don't even know this man, and I don't want to give him false hope. _He turned around and saw Arthur's form curled up against the couch in an uncomfortable mess of skinny tangled limbs and floor. He walked over and gently scooped him up like a knight would a sleeping princess and, with his foot, pushed all the mess on the couch to one side, laying Arthur on the other. He may be a fool... and he may not be worthy of... whatever Arthur had given him, but he would do his best to make him happy. He wasn't the superhero he'd always wanted to be, but he could do his best to make this one man as happy as he possibly could.


	2. Chapter 2 - Strange Beginnings

_A/N_  
_Hello, lovely readers! Thank you to all those who reviewed! Sorry I did not respond, I only just saw them! I'm really looking forward to writing this story, so unlike the others, I plan on seeing it through to the end! I am sorry for the delay between chapters, none of this is pre-written, and I don't have a lot of time to write. Without further ado, here is chapter two! Arthur's POV this time._

* * *

Arthur woke in a terribly confused state. He was on the sofa, clinging to someone's jacket as a strange... but delicious smell came from the kitchen. His stomach growled angrily, and he slowly rose into a sitting position, blinking in confusion. He didn't know anyone who might stop for a visit- Oh... The previous day's events returned to him in a wave of embarrassment. Without further thought, he slipped off the sofa and wandered over to his tiny excuse for a kitchen.  
"Artie!" the young, attractive barista whose name he had forgotten shouted. "I thought you were going to sleep forever!" he teased.

Arthur couldn't quite wrap his mind over what exactly was happening, and blinked at him in confusion, "Why are you still here?"

"You passed out so suddenly, I wanted to stay and make sure you were okay." He beamed at the artist. "You didn't get to enjoy your coffee, so I thought I would make you food... you didn't have much food though, so I had to make do with what you had."

"Don't... you have work?"

"Not at 10:30 at night I don't," he chuckled, "You slept for a long time. I guess it's been a while? You really shouldn't do that to yourself... It's not healthy."  
"Who are you to judge my lifestyle choices!?" Arthur snapped, automatically assuming the worst of the man. After all, that was just the sort of person he was used to: someone who pretended to be nice, but really just wanted to "fix" and "help" others... to put them in a box and make them just like everyone else.  
Seeming to deflate, the barista frowned and looked down, making Arthur feel just the tiniest bit guilty. "I was just... worried about you. Your paintings are so amazing you can't possibly die before you become famous!" he insisted, his smile coming back _too_ fast. It seemed so natural and happy but... Arthur wasn't sure it truly was.

He sighed and looked down at his feet, and fiddled his hands around, "W-what did you make?"

"Pancakes. You didn't have syrup, so we'll have to use jelly," he bent over and pulled a tray of perfectly round pancakes out of the previously unused oven,  
"Find a spot on the table and wait. I'll bring them out to you."

Without questioning it, Arthur obliged. This whole situation was extraordinarily weird, but Arthur had learned that sometimes you just have to accept the strange things life throws at you and move on. He moved his canvases and paints to the corner of the room and sat down on one of the dusty chairs, laying his  
head on the table in front of him.

"Are you still tired?" the barista asked, setting a mouth-watering plate of pancakes in front of him, and sitting down across from him.

Arthur blinked and sat up, pulling the plate closer. He picked up the fork that was set on the side of his plate and poked gently at the meal, "It's pretty," he muttered softly, more to himself than the younger man, "The perfect color... and it looks nice with the jam..." he looked up to catch the man smiling in  
amusement at his comment, and flushed a pale pink.

"You're a really funny guy. Didya know that, Artie?" the barista picked at his pancakes and looked back up at him, "But it's really cool... I wish I could look at things like that. To me, they're just pancakes with jelly," he took a bite, getting the sticky topping all over his mouth.

Arthur cut himself a nice piece and ate it delicately, "Thanks... Umm, you're American, right? Your accent..."

"Yep!" he declared loudly, causing Arthur to wince. He wasn't used to such exuberance, "I'm going to medical school here in London. I wanted to get away. Home wasn't so great to me, you know? But I like it here for now... I know at some point I am gonna have to go back, but I get to stick around at least until my  
program is over."  
_  
So he's leaving... _Arthur thought, feeling a twinge of sadness for a reason he couldn't understand. "Oh, I see..."

"But at least now I've made a friend! You're such a cool guy. I was looking at some of your paintings while you were sleeping... err, sorry, I hope it wasn't intruding, I just couldn't help it! But seriously, they are way cool. I especially like that one you did of the skyline, umm the sunset one! It's so pretty, even better than the photos I've seen of the one in New York!"

Arthur turned bright red, trying to process everything he had just said, which was difficult, because he was still stuck on "friend". Arthur didn't have any friends, and it wasn't like he was considering this man to be one. He couldn't even remember his name! Besides, he knew that if the man spent much more time with him, he would soon change his mind about wanting to be friends. Arthur wasn't good with people, "...Thanks," was all he could come up with.

Alfred sighed and seemed to grow a lot more serious, picking at his pancakes, "So, hey... This morning... just before you fell asleep... you told me that... that I was your... inspiration?" he muttered quietly. Arthur was perplexed by the sudden switch in his personality. From loud and happy to this quiet, embarrassed almost... worried(?) young man. He was so stunned by it that he almost didn't process the words he said, and when he did, he turned a fuchsia color that matched a splatter of paint on his faded trouser pants.

"D-did I...? Sorry about that... but... I just... when I saw you, the first thing I thought was that... I would love to- love to do a painting of you," he finally admitted, looking away.

Now, it was Alfred's turn to blush, "Whaaat? Me? Why!?"

"...You're beautiful," Arthur admitted, but his words weren't flirty or suggestive in any way, but like a child admire the colors of a flower in their mothers garden. Arthur didn't see human beauty in a sexual way like most did, but as a work of art, waiting to be captured forever in his paints.

He looked back at Alfred, who was blushing all the way up to his ears with an expression that could only be described as a_dorable. _His eyes were wide, his lips were squeezed together tightly, and he was squirming awkwardly, "No one... No one has ever called me that before. I don't think... it's something you're supposed to call a guy!"

Arthur shrugged and went back to eating his pancakes in silence, smearing his jam in spirals on eat bite. The silence continued for several minutes, until almost all of his food was gone.

"You can paint me," Alfred finally said, looking up from his now-empty plate.

"R-really?" Arthur asked, a bubbling excitement swelling in his chest.

"Of course. If I... if I inspire you, then it would be a shame to let that go to waste. Just no nudes or anything, okay?" he teased, and Arthur dropped his fork,  
turning red again.

"O-of course not, idiot!" he sputtered, looking everywhere but at him.

"It's Alfred," he teased, "But people mistake me for "idiot" a lot," he chuckled, and stood up, "So... when do you want to do this painting?" he asked, "I'm free tomorrow."

Arthur stood up as well, and grabbed his plate, "Can we... start now?" he asked shyly, not quite wanting to admit how eager he was.  
Alfred chuckled. "Right after I wash these dishes." He headed for the kitchen sink.

"Okay... I'll go prepare!" Arthur said, hurrying to his easel in the living room, too giddy to realize he was letting a total stranger do his dishes and how terribly rude that was. He didn't quite like working in the living room; the lighting was all wrong, but for now it was okay. The sun was down, there was a fire, and he really, really didn't want Alfred in his room. He selected a canvas of medium size and a several long, thin paintbrushes, as delicate and brittle as the hands he painted with. He pulled over several boxes of paint and turned on some lamps, before waiting... Alfred seemed to be taking forever (in actuality it was but a few minutes). Arthur tapped his foot and sighed impatiently over and over.

"Someone's impatient," an amused voice teased from behind him. "That eager, huh?" He chuckled, a perfect sound that made Arthur's spine tremble. "Where should I sit?"

Arthur stared dumbly at him for several moments, before blushing and muttering, "Just over on that chair, and hit play on the radio. I work better with music playing." Alfred tapped the button and sat down, and the small apartment was soon filled with delightful classic music. "Can you put one hand over your heart? No, the other one, and straighten your head! Look toward me. Relax! Bloody hell, not that much," Arthur directed the fumbling American, to no avail. He finally stood up and without a second thought, took Alfred's hands and positioned them in the way he wished. Under any other circumstance, this touch would have been embarrassing or at least awkward, but Arthur was in work mode, and right now the only things he could think about were the colors of Alfred's skin, and the way the light played off his glasses and the gold of his hair. It was all so mind-numbingly beautiful.

He didn't waste a second getting paint onto the pure white canvas before him. Peach, white, and gold all blended together under the dance of his brush. The world seemed to melt away, and all he could see was his vision of what he was to create. Song after song played, melding their way into the paints and directed the emotions they created. There was blue now, a deep, shimmering blue that seemed endless, like the depths of the clearest ocean waters. Fields of gold hair made ripples in against a peachy sky, and a subtle white of a perfectly chewed up fingernail was a cloud by the sunset red of his lips.

"Arthur?" A voice finally squeaked.

Arthur did not hear or did not care. He was too lost amongst the paints to return to the harshness of reality just yet.

"Arthur?" the voice squeaked again, like a shove off a cliff back to the cold, dark recesses of the canyon.

"What the hell do you need?" he finally groaned, setting down his paintbrush.

"Um... I think... the sun is coming up. You've been at this for hours. My whole body hurts."

Arthur's eyes grew wide and he looked up at the rays of soft light peeking through his thick, forest green curtains, "Bloody hell..." he muttered his eyes growing wide, "It felt like- It felt like we just started."

"Can I get up?" Alfred asked pitifully.

"Of course! Did... how did... Why did you sit still for that long? You could have told me earlier..." he looked down shamefully, but did not move to help the stiff man whose joints were popping as he moved from the chair.

"You seemed so happy. I didn't want to interrupt you."

"But... you couldn't have been comfortable..." Arthur protested, looking away shamefully, unable to see the adoring gaze Alfred was giving him.

"I'm fine... Hey, can I see the painting?" Alfred got up and strolled over, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to look, "Oh gosh, wow..." he said in awe, staring at the beautiful depiction of himself. It was just a portrait, and only half done, but there was no doubt it was more beautiful than any other painting he had lays eyes on, and not just because it was him. In fact, looking at the picture, it was like he didn't even register it was himself, but instead it was a man who Alfred knew he was very close to... "I'm not that beautiful, Artie" he chuckled, trying to cover up the blush that was tinting the apples of his cheeks.

"Of course you are. Otherwise I wouldn't have painted you that way," Arthur said in an almost-offended tone.

"Oh, it was a compliment," Alfred sighed, but in slight amusement, "It's the most incredible painting I have ever laid eyes upon, and I can't wait to model again so you can finish it," he promised with an honest smile.

Arthur's heart warmed... and he smiled back at the America for the first time since they had met, "Thank you, Alfred. Thank you."


End file.
